I Could Never Understand the Wind at All Was Like a Ball of Love

Ahoy, my sweets. Thank you for popping in for my 17th installment of my Substack: Duchess of Rock, which finds me putting forth a song I adore and suspect you might, too. This week I’m traveling once again – for events in Phoenix and Tucson – and while in transit, I’ve been craving a cosmic comfort blanket, -- my old standby albums that give anywhere I go the aura of home. There is no question about the record I’ve listened to more than any other, so many rotations, in fact, it’s like a sonic worry stone.

Today’s pick: “The Slider” by T. Rex, from their 1972 album, “The Slider”

OK, were once again back in my days of Russian Red lipstick (the color allegedly custom-made for Madonna by MAC) and vintage rhinestone chokers, working at Kitchen Venus in Portland, Ore. While the coveted shifts at this retro-styled diner involved slinging rice Krispie treats and Big Red soda pops from the counter, we took turns operating the dishwasher and helping prep the old-school meatloaf and new-school baked vegetarian polenta. We also had a democratic approach to music, and we all brought in CDs for the communal boombox. One day, my friend Jason, who sang for an industrial punk band (Pope Wyrm) with my then-roommates, and was one of those smartass, well-read social deviants (a compliment, obviously), put in a disc.

From the first note, I was entranced. It was midtempo rock ’n’ roll with a sexy strut, but there was a wisp of melancholy tempering its bravado. When I inquired, Jason told me it was the glam-rock band, T. Rex. For me, glam was the elegantly eclectic razzmatazz of David Bowie. This was both more straightforward (with sweet nonsense choruses that evoked the innocent playfulness of Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper) and unique (a symphonic jungle woven from lilting strings, percussive sax, and renegade guitar solos). It was unapologetically, exuberantly weird, as if front man Marc Bolan were the one who had beamed a message directly from Mars.

My turn at the dishwasher felt a little less dire by the third track, “The Slider.” A staggering, rolling drum opens into an unhurried shuffle with brassy bursts of snare and baroque strings frothing over a joyously lowkey “do do do.” Like aural shadow puppets, the overall effect is moody and a bit magical, but when you break it down to examine the individual parts, there’s nothing complicated about it at all.

I was so transfixed that I stood at the dish sink for hours, letting the CD repeat over and over. Maybe halfway through the fourth listen, one of the guys working in the kitchen with me shouted over to ask if he could choose the next album. “Sure!” I said, letting the “The Slider” play to the end, even though I knew I had taken way more than my alloted time as music supervisor that day.

My love affair with T. Rex and the impish, curly-haired Marc Bolan — he of the orange Gibson Les Paul and the sparkly tuxedo jackets — has been passionate and unwavering. For those in my life who only knew the band through the band’s bombastic radio hit, “Bang a Gong,” it was sometimes surprising that this nearly forgotten glam band was my favorite artist of all time. But no other musician has ever made me as purely happy as Marc does. And his relative obscurity has only made me love him more — and want to preach the gospel. There is no better feeling than walking into a restaurant or bar and having a T. Rex song play; it feels like the world is my soundstage, the universe my DJ. The fact that he died tragically young means he released only a handful of albums. No matter, as I’ve found my perfect playlist for almost every mood in “The Slider.” As Marc used to sign off his short-lived BBC show, and as I’ve now done for decades: “Keep a little Marc in your heart.”

Please sing along to a song by Marc Bolan and T. Rex. You’ll thank me. Love, the Duchess

In book news:

My debut novel, “The Last Days of the Midnight Ramblers,” is out now from Flatiron Books. The first leg of my tour is in the books — thanks to everyone who turned up in support! Next, come see me in Palm Springs and Seattle. (Book tour details here.) 

Many friends have asked what they can do to support me and my book, and here’s a big one: whether you purchased my novel through Amazon, please log on and leave it a rating (I’d recommend 5 stars, but you do you!) and even a one-line review. Without enough reviews, my book won’t come up as a recommended title when readers search for related books. Thank you!

Watch a rapid-fire Q&A, posted by Flatiron on Instagram.